In the summer
I add my heat
to a city already aflame.

In the summer
my thighs are in bloom,
perfumed and bare.

In the summer
we scent one another -
just animals selecting a mate.

Twine your arms about me
slick with beads of desire
and damp against my waist.

I turn into your neck
to swallow your salt,
surviving on a simple mineral.

The others press by us
women, flushed at the breast,
treat the season as a lover.

Fanning The Times, spreading news
of their ripeness.
Lifting skirts over knees
coaxing a breeze, however shy,
to poke its nose where the furnace burns brightest.

Males stare, with naked longing.
Summer makes meals of flesh
that winter would never allow.

This city cooks us.
Steeped in our fine juices,
we exhale hot breath
ingest of a pheromone feast.

So, come, eat me!
While the old fan creaks, and blows,
wheezily, through a wet dishcloth,
and ice makes the pitcher
cry rings through old varnish.

Dizzy Gillespie
sings along with our noise,
joins in at crescendo,
and murmurs our sighs.

In the summer
melting ice on my throat
echo fingers upon me
probing and wet.

Let’s mix our heat
and burn this place down!
What else can we do
when the devil’s in town?

The divinity of fashion
and the sin of giving up,
require me to brush my hair
when I’ve just got up.

Then I add the rouge and pearls
by at least the stroke of nine,
for standards must be reached, and kept,
this day, and for all time.

As great Aunt Ella lauded
from her vantage point on high
a gal’s apparent loveliness
ain’t decreed by you or I.

If one feels thus as lovely
as is seen in one’s minds eye
then who are we to criticise,
snigger, ***** or sigh?

Lovely is as lovely does
blow a kiss to your reflection
thou is truly lovely
in cosmeticised perfection.

If love is project or industry,
marriage may be no less,
but by strange flight, my heart will rise
the day I wear the dress.

All good poets write of artistry
and two hearts twining junction.
My fistful got a willing bet
we won’t make it past the function.

Then again, if history
is to be our shepherd,
there’s every chance, that by first dance
the spots’ll be wiped from the leopard.

‘Cos when we met, all past misdeeds
were put to rightful death,
and something in my stomach knew
I wouldn’t catch a breath -

- without it being needed
to fuel and fan the flame
of the one I had been waiting for:
the wise-*** to my dame.

Oh, how corny! What a gas!
The canary starts to sing
two cynical outsiders
exchanging vows and rings.

Well, ain’t that peachy, darling!
A direct hit from a near-miss.
So, let’s get us on the road to ruin
with some wedded bliss.